


The Samwell Job

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Parker (Leverage), Coming Out, Crossover, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Food, Forced Outing, Homophobia, Multi, Press and Tabloids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-20 07:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: When an unscrupulous reporter outs Jack and Bitty, it should be just another day in sleazy tabloid journalism. Except that Eliot Spencer owes Bad Bob Zimmermann a favor.





	The Samwell Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/gifts).



> **CONTENT WARNINGS** : forced outing, implied queerphobia and anti-queer violence (in the context of hockey), and a heckuva lot of food. Please let me know if I should be warning for anything else.
> 
> Happy birthday to [the_wordbutler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler). Thank you so much for asking for this, because writing it was _great_!
> 
> Thank you, [Perpetual Motion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion), for the beta work.
> 
> 2017 was my Year of the Crossover. I started the year with [a crossover that the_wordbutler insitgated](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9949445), so it's fitting that I end with another one for her.
> 
> I HAVE NEVER BEEN HAPPIER TO HAVE A FIC OBSOLESCED. Specifically, the _Check, Please!_ updates of the past week have blown apart this story's coming out arc for Jack and Bitty, and I am thrilled.
> 
> If you're not familiar with _[Leverage](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1103987/)_ , PLEASE WATCH IT, if you can find it. It's one of my top 5 TV shows of all time. The short version is that it's about a group of people who break the law to get bring the rich and powerful to the justice they usually evade and build a family in the process, but it's also about _so much more than that_ and I can't do it justice in a few words.
> 
> If you're not familiar with Ngozi Ukazu's _[Check, Please!](http://checkpleasecomic.com/comic/01-01-01)_ , PLEASE READ IT. It's one of my top 2 webcomics of all time. It's about a college student who plays hockey, bakes pies, and falls in love, but it's also about _so much more than that_ , and I can't do it justice in a few words. Go forth and enjoy!

"This isn't what we _do_ , Hardison," Parker hisses. They're hiding in the kitchen of the apartment above the brewpub, heads pressed together to keep their voices low. Parker's wrapped her arms around her torso; she feels _cold_ , and not because of the weather. "We don't help some guy with _three_ houses and _four_ Stanley Cup rings ruin a guy who's one bad week away from getting bounced from a roach-infested shithole."

"Babe, I _know_ ," Hardison whispers back. His fingers graze down her sleeve, but he doesn't try to hold on or touch her skin. "But it's _Eliot_. And you _know_ he's gotta have the longest list of all of us of people who could use some Leverage-style justice. But the number of times he's asked us to take a job?" He shakes his head. "I could count that on my fingers and have enough left over to beat level 200 of _Robot Ninja Kitten_."

"You can beat level 200 of _Robot Ninja Kitten_ with one hand tied behind your back," Parker says. It's a programmed response at this point.

Hardison ducks down and presses a kiss to her hairline. "Maybe let's hear him out, at least?"

Parker huffs but leads them back into the living room. Eliot's sitting in one of the armchairs now. Parker glares from him to the couch, unsure who she's angry with. They _had_ all been on the couch together, Hardison's chest keeping Parker's back warm where she rested against it, Eliot's thigh keeping her toes warm where she'd shoved them under it. It had felt like progress. This, with Parker and Hardison returning to the couch while Eliot sits ramrod straight in his chair, feels like the opposite. Regress?

"It's not our usual thing," Eliot says. He won't look at them. Usually Parker appreciates that he doesn't force eye contact, but he's not even looking _near_ her, and he's not looking at Hardison, either. Parker's jaw clenches. "But I owe Bob a favor."

And when Eliot Spencer owes you a favor, he will _always_ deliver.

Hardison rests the edge of his hand against the outer seam of Parker's jeans. It's not much, but it's probably all Parker can handle right now, and she shoots Hardison a grateful look before turning back to Eliot. "Okay," she says, "explain it to me again."

*

Explaining it again includes Eliot reading the article in the _Exposé_ where Brock Healy outed the client's son and future son-in-law. Typical sleazy tabloid fare, in Parker's opinion. But it's the _way_ Eliot reads it, in this tight, controlled monotone they usually only hear when he talks about the end of his military career or his time with Moreau. It's the way he looks from the screen to Parker and Hardison with a look that clearly says _this is why we can't._

And screw that. They _can_. Parker sets her jaw. The This Relationship Needs an Eliot Job has been stalled for _years_ , and Parker is sick of waiting. It's that, far more than any compassion for Bad Bob Zimmermann or his son, that leads Parker to nod and say, "Let's go steal a reputation."

*

_"Hey, y'all! I suspect we got some new viewers today, so let me introduce myself. My name's Eric, and this is my vlog. I'm originally from Georgia, but these days home's sorta split between Massachusetts and Rhode Island. I'm a senior at Samwell University, where I'm an American Studies major and the shortest current member of the Samwell men's hockey team (and, they tell me, its shortest captain in team history)._

_"I have a boyfriend named Jack. He plays some hockey, too. [winks]_

_"Now, I'm real excited to answer some viewer questions about baking, but I know some folks won't be happy 'til we talk about… other things. So._

_"For any of y'all saying I 'turned Jack Zimmermann gay': first off, Jack's **bi**. Second, I didn't turn anybody anything. A gentleman doesn't tell other people's secrets, but Jack says it's all right if I say that I am **not** the first boy in his life._

_"For anybody who wants to argue with me about anything the Bible says: I am from a small town in the Bible Belt; you can't say anything I haven't heard before. All I can say to you is that you must've gotten the sad version of the Bible. 'Cause mine talks a lot about love, and if you can look at that kind, dedicated, passionate, beautiful man and say it's wrong for me to love him, then I just feel sorry for you._

_"If you're onea those people saying I'm not good enough for Jack Zimmermann, well, bless your hearts, some days I'm not sure I'm good enough for him, either! [laughs] But, you know, whatever his reasons—and I know he's got 'em—he's chosen to be with me, better or worse, and I reckon that'll have to be enough for me—and you._

_"If you are Brock Healy, and you have the nerve to be watching this: **Shame on you.**_

_"Now, Kellie from Denver's got a great question about high-altitude baking...."_

*

Bob Zimmermann's son Jack is beautiful. Dark brown hair, bright blue eyes, and okay, wow, those are impressive muscles. He clearly knows how attractive he is. And is very uncomfortable with it.

Jack's boyfriend Bitty (because apparently hockey players are _super_ attached to their nicknames) is adorable, with cowlicked blond hair and sparkling brown eyes, bright energy and Southern charm. He and Eliot are trading recipes and cooking tips in under ten minutes.

"Brock Healy declared himself my, I don't know… journalistic nemesis? all the way back when I was in the Q. He was the first to claim I'd ODed on cocaine." Jack speaks quietly. His accent feels _round_ to Parker. He twists and untwists his hands in his lap until Bitty touches them. Then Jack's whole body uncoils. "I was sure he was going to out me then. I had a—I was with someone, and we didn't know the meaning of 'discretion.'" He shrugs. "Either Healy didn't have what I thought he did, or he decided Bad Bob's son overdosing was bigger news than which teammate he was screwing."

"Jack," Bitty says softly. Jack clenches his jaw and looks away, but he lets Bitty take his hand.

"Your ex," Eliot says, "you on good terms?"

Jack and Bitty exchange a quick glance. "We do okay," Jack says carefully.

"He's not behind this," Bitty insists. "He's got as much to lose if he got tied up in this." They've been careful not to say his name, and it can't be the kid who got outed alongside Jack in the article, because he would've been, like, _eleven_ when Jack was in the Q.

"More," Jack says, running his thumb in circles around the back of Bitty's hand. "He's single; he's reckless; he makes bad choices." Bitty makes a cooing sound, and Eliot's scoff as he turns away is softer than he probably wants it to be.

Jack turns to Parker, his expression beseeching. "This isn't about me," he says earnestly. "Bittle and I, I mean, this isn't the ideal way of coming out, no. But we had planned to do it. Soon."

"Soon _ish_ ," Bitty says.

Jack huffs an exhausted laugh. "Soonish. End of next season at the latest. But Chippy…"

This is the moment where Parker gets it. Gets why, of all the jobs in the world, they're helping the guy with the seven-figure contract. Jack doesn't care about himself. He's pissed, but for all the disasters of his past, he has the A, the Zimmermann legacy, and the boyfriend who would go to the moon and back for him. He's not doing this for himself; he's doing it for a 19-year-old Falconers rookie who's 600 miles from home, has a shaky relationship with his parents, and whose safety net is more hole than net. Jack is compromising his moral code for the sake of a teammate, and it doesn't take a psych degree or Sophie's famous people-reading skills to see why that appeals to Eliot.

Eliot nods at Jack. "You ready to get your hands dirty?" he asks. "For Chippy?"

"I want to ruin this guy," Jack admits. "I want him to understand exactly what he's done and make sure he _never_ has a chance to do it again. But I'm Canadian. Not exactly known for our sense of bloody vengeance, eh?"

"Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you stop lying," Bitty says with an exasperated laugh. "I have met your father _and_ Kent Parson." Jack spreads his hands helplessly and doesn't answer.

Parker laughs. It's not a happy sound. "Don't worry," she says. "We can teach you."

*

"Turns out, the problem is _not_ Brock Healy," Hardison announces, projecting Healy's smug face onto the screen.

Eliot's eyebrows lift as he slides onto the stool next to Parker. "No?" God, he's so _close_. If he moved his stool an _inch,_ his leg would be pressed against hers. He glances over, and she gives him a pointed _get over here **now**_ look. He squints. "You feeling okay?"

Parker groans.

"Brock Healy is your standard tabloid sleaze pap fare," Hardison says. He clicks the controller, and another face, smugger and obviously richer, appears beside Healy's. "The real problem is Dave Winn, who owns the _Exposé_ and a handful of other media properties. Now, normally that wouldn't be news—water is wet; tabloid journalism is dishonest. But, you know, even someone like Monica Hunter followed her own, uh, code of journalistic ethics, however twisted it was. I mean, even if was only for the network to wave at a judge when they inevitably get sued for libel." Another click brings up a dozen headlines from the _Exposé_ and other publications, which Parker assumes Davie Winn also owns. Each one is absurd. A couple are flat-out lies, because _they_ had committed the misdeed the headline attributes to someone else. "Dave Winn encourages his writers—and by 'encourages,' I definitely mean 'forces,' with threats of everything from firing to eviction to getting their kids taken away—to pick a celebrity 'target' and hound 'em 'til they do something newsworthy. If they can't catch it happening, they're supposed to _make_ it happen. If it still won't happen, Winn flat-out tells 'em to make it up."

Eliot jerks his head at the screen. "What's he got on Healy?"

Hardison clucks his tongue and goes back to Healy's picture. "Not a damn thing that I could find. I mean, maybe there's something, but if there is he's hiding it way better than anybody else on Winn's payroll." He shakes his head. "Far's I can tell, Brock Healy's one of the only ones doing things Winn's way because he _likes_ it."

Parker grins and slides off her stool. "Then we'll take them both down." Dismantling an empire of lies? That's much more their speed.

*

The clock's just ticked over to one in the morning, and Parker feels like they've been arguing for days. She's slumped against Eliot's shoulder on the bland hotel room couch, less out of intent then gravity. He's got an arm slung around her, a warm, grounding weight across the back of her neck while his fingers map out fight moves on her collarbone. Hardison's sprawled across a chair he's pulled up to the end of the couch, and he's spending a lot of time in Eliot's space. He's in minute seventeen of making the case for a Poughkeepsie Keepaway, which is never going to happen, Hardison, honestly, where are they going to find that many ducks on such short notice?

Eliot grabs Hardison's wrist. "Hardison, stop," he says. His voice has that rasp it gets when he stays up too late. "Even if it were, you know, possible, which you know it's not at this time of year, that con is an affront to cheesemakers everywhere, and we're not gonna do it."

They carry on bickering, but Parker tunes them out, too focused on Eliot's fingers in a loose hold around Hardison's wrist and Hardison's fingers stroking slowly over Eliot's pulse point.

The world slows and quiets. Everything crystallizes into this moment, the three of them together like this, her team, her _family._ "Guys," she says serenely, "we're going to do a My Cousin Jimmy."

Hardison and Eliot stop. They look at each other and then at Parker, and they're grinning.

And they're still holding hands.

*

"I'm not sure that's going to work, Parker." That's the first thing Nate says. It's always the first thing Nate says.

Behind her, Hardison and Eliot _seethe_ , like they do every time Nate says this. Something about his rampant negativity and her fragile self-confidence. Or something. She doesn't usually listen.

They don't understand how much these Skype calls help. Nate at his worst is a small, drunken pillar of negativity. Nate at his best is a mind sharper than any laser and eyes on more angles than the highest-end security system. Either way, Parker gets someone who's happy to do what Eliot and Hardison are reluctant to: to dig into her plans and tell her where the holes are.

Parker looks at her notes again. "Yeah? Jack says he doesn't mind the attention, and Bad Bob's itching to throw a punch."

"A My Cousin Jimmy, I mean, that's a lot of moving parts, yeah? You need a lot of players on the board. At least… oh, I'd say four, even five."

Parker can't believe she once had trouble reading Nate. "We've got plenty of people."

She's only given him the broadest strokes on this one. It's a straightforward job, once everything's in place. He doesn't need to know that Jack's apartment is playing host to no fewer than eleven current and former Wellies, six Falconers, and Jack's parents.

"Although actually—" There's an in here. Probably not the one Nate wants, but one that'll let him save face, which Sophie has explained is very important to him. "Jack's mom wants to be part of this, and I don't know what to do with her. I figure she'd be great at grifting, but I feel like I'm not using her well enough. I thought Sophie might, you know…" She lets her voice trail off, hoping Nate will take the bait.

He doesn't disappoint. "Jack's mom? Oh, Alicia Zimmermann? Is she there?"

Parker's counted to four when the scuffle ends. Sophie's shoved Nate out of the way and is staring earnestly at the screen as she breathlessly asks, "Parker? What part of Providence are you in, exactly?"

*

Nate's right about one thing: this job has _a lot_ of moving parts. Parker worries about them. Nate calls constant worry a sign of a good mastermind. Eliot and Hardison tell Nate to get bent. Parker loves that part.

Parker's checking on her moving parts. She's not actually trying to eavesdrop.

"—parents say?"

Parker pauses and hears Jack snort a laugh. She sidles forward enough to see into the room through the barely-there crack the door is open. Jack's sitting on the bed, Bitty standing between his legs. Bitty's running his hands through Jack's dark hair, while Jack's hands rest on Bitty's waist, thumbs sweeping up under the hem of his suspiciously large Falconers hoodie. "Papa says I should punch him in the face and be done with it," Jack says

Bitty makes a surprised noise. "He's the one who hired the team."

"Because Maman told him to. She says he'll never have a better use for the favor Eliot owed him. She says, 'Black eyes heal, but a reputation is ruined forever.'"

Bitty sighs dreamily. "I owe your mama _so many_ pies." He tilts Jack's head up until Jack has to look at him. "How you holding up, sweetpea?" he asks softly.

Jack's face does this weird twist. "Not great," he admits. He squeezes Bitty's hips. "Better because you're here."

Bitty sags, his forehead dropping to Jack's shoulders. His voice is muffled, and Parker strains to hear him say, "…in this mess 'cause I'm here."

 _That_ look on Jack's face is anguish. "Bits." He slides his hands to Bitty's arms and shifts him back so they're looking at each other again. "Bittle. _No._ It was always going to be something. You're most of the reason I made it through my rookie year at all. Without you, who knows what bad decisions I might've made, eh?" He chuckles ruefully. "I'm not happy to be doing this. But I'm happy to be doing it with you."

Bitty sighs and leans forward, resting his forehead against Jack's. "This boy," he murmurs.

Parker pulls back and wanders toward the kitchen, lips pursed.

*

"Plan C," Parker tells her guys.

They're in the hotel room's kitchenette. Parker's sitting on the tiny slip of an island counter. Eliot and Hardison lean side-by-side against the other counter, their hips bumping because Hardison's awful slouch eats up the height difference. Parker's spine winces in sympathy, but she's more interested in the way the guys are constantly in each other's spaces, constantly touching, and never acknowledging it. She doesn't acknowledge it, either, because if she did they would stop.

Hardison looks up from where he's had his face basically buried in his mug of mulled cider. It's Eliot's special recipe, it tastes like cinnamon and clove and autumn, and Parker has no idea how Eliot managed it in this cramped space. Hardison's eyes widen, and a little cider sloshes over the lip of his mug. "Don't I get _shot_ in Plan C?"

Eliot turns to face Hardison and rests his hand at the join of Hardison's neck and shoulder. "Five percent chance, tops," he soothes. Then he breaks out that grin he only uses when he's riling Hardison up and slaps his shoulder. "Definitely gonna get punched, though."

Hardison squawks in protest, and Parker laughs so hard she has to set her mug down.

*

Parker wishes she had a camera to capture the look on Alicia Zimmermann's face the first time she sees Sophie. It's a squashed look that people get when they see someone they weren't expecting and have to look happy to see them when they're not.

But Alicia turns out to be as good an actor off-screen as she is on, and the expression smooths into something almost convincing in less than a blink. "Celine!" she says, leaning forward to do those dumb air kisses to Sophie's cheeks. "My goodness, I haven't seen you since..."

" _Cordella_!" Sophie says, and her voice _sounds_ as bright, but she's holding herself stiffly. "It's been ages."

Parker curses and shares a frantic eyebrow exchange with Hardison. Sophie hasn't done much film, preferring the stage where there's less recorded evidence linking her to any particular name, time, and place. But she's done a B movie or two, and apparently one of them also starred Alicia Zimmermann, and they should've known that going in.

Parker appreciates Jack's parents. Their support has been vital to keeping Jack calm, and Bad Bob's name and reputation have greased a lot of wheels. And, sure, they've promised to do anything the team asks, but that's no guarantee that they won't also try to do something the team _hasn't_ asked.

Sophie has Alicia in hand in under ten seconds, air-kissing back and saying breezily, "Celine was a silly old screen name that I don't use anymore. Please, call me Sophie."

Alicia melts. She squeezes Sophie's hand and says, "What brings you here?"

Sophie's eyes widen, and she gestures at Nate standing at her shoulder, Parker and Hardison leaning against the back of the couch, Eliot looming in the kitchen doorway. "You hired my team."

A small, startled noise escapes Alicia's lips. "Oh!" she says breathlessly. "That explains where you've been. I guess."

Sophie throws her a wink like she's imparting her deepest secret. "Darling, you have _no idea_."

Alicia laughs and breezes further into the apartment, receiving a rousing welcome from the assembled masses. Parker hears Ransom and Holster clamoring for Alicia's autograph, then Sophie's, screaming about "Leneer and Gonzo!" followed by Jack begging them to "stop being weird at my mom."

Nate gives Parker a long look. "You okay?"

Parker jerks. She'd kind of forgotten he was there. "Sure. Fine."

Nate jerks a thumb at the living room. "Will she be okay?"

Parker nods. "She's the one who said to bring us in. Someone hurt people she loves. She'll do whatever she has to to protect them."

"Bob's the one you gotta worry about," Eliot says, coming forward from the doorway.

"Bob?" Parker snorts. "Bob's easy. He wants to punch something. Like a face."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "That's exactly my point, Parker. That kind of undirected violence is gonna get in our way."

"So direct him!" Parker says, hands waving.

Eliot's eyebrows scale his forehead. "Me?"

Honestly, this man. If Parker didn't love him so much, she'd smack him.

"Yes, you!" Parker huffs. "You're the hitter. Give him something to hit."

"This isn't Take Your Client to Work Day, Parker. Bob's not trained for what I do, and he's old."

"Ain't no spring chicken yourself," Hardison mutters.

 _This_ man. If Parker didn't love _him_ so much, he'd be sleeping on the roof tonight.

"You think I don't know that, Hardison?" Eliot snaps, sounding anguished. "But I got training. I know how to work around my limitations. What's Bob got, huh?"

"Besides my four Stanley Cup rings?" Bob asks mildly.

Eliot growls at Hardison and Parker as he pushes past them to get right in Bob's face. He puts both hands on Bob's shoulders and stares into his eyes. "Bob, what I do—"

"You know my reputation," Bob says, chin tilted up stubbornly.

Eliot makes a frustrated grunt from the back of his throat. "On the _ice_. What I do, it's not like dropping gloves against Domi or Berube until the refs break it up and send you to the box. This is fighting for your _life,_ okay, and I won't let you get caught in that." He gives a faint, crooked smile and his gaze darts toward the living room. "Even if my conscience allowed it, Alicia would kill me."

Bob rolls his eyes. "These are _journalists_. Who would we be fighting?"

Hardison holds his tablet out to Bob, and Parker watches the color drain out of the guy's face as he reads what is presumably Winn's file. "Dave Winn built his empire on all kinds of morally and legally bankrupt dealings. You think he won't send goons around?"

Bob returns the tablet to Hardison with a hand that's shaking slightly. But he keeps his eyes on Eliot as he says, "I called you because I know what you and your team can do. I know you have skills and resources and… latitudes that I do not. But that man—both those men—they came after my boys, and that poor rookie, and—fine. Tell me I can't come fight with you. But if you think for a second that I'm going to sit back and let you do _everything_ —"

"We'll find you something to do," Parker interjects. Changes shimmer in front of her, Plan C becoming Plans D through F, all with Bad Bob folded into them. "Not fighting. Eliot's right; you're not trained for that. But... something." She grins at him, a little wild, and his grin is wild right back. "Yeah. It'll be something."

*

István "Chippy" Czippán is 6'3" of whipcord muscle, shaggy dark hair, and guileless green eyes, and at this point he pretty much lives on Jack and Bitty's sofa. Bitty and Jack sort of adopted the rookie from Cleveland, Ohio, during the preseason. He has Jack's intensity and Bitty's energy, and it's easy to see how he fell into their orbit.

Healy's article seethes with insinuations that Jack and Chippy are having a torrid affair. The truth is much sadder: in their quest to help an overwhelmed gay rookie balance dating and falling in love and getting his heart broken like any other teenager with having a job where he is both surrounded by homophobes and under constant scrutiny, Jack and Bitty trusted the wrong people, and now they're all suffering for it.

Chippy's response has mostly been to mope on the couch. There was mournful harmonica playing for a while, but that ended after the second time Eliot threatened to shove the harmonica nto any number of painful and anatomically implausible orifices.

Parker and the guys arrive as the Samwell players are showing up the next morning. Parker wonders if she should worry about their school attendance. But between Bitty, Eliot, and Marty, they have the "parent friend" thing pretty well covered, so she's just going to do her job.

Dex gravitates toward the couch, where a sleep-rumpled Chippy spent the night. Chippy burrows into his side immediately, and Dex wraps an arm around him, pressing a kiss to his hair. Parker frowns, because she'd thought Dex was with Nursey.

Ten seconds later, Nursey finishes saying good morning to Hardison and taking advantage of Jack's coffee maker, which may be even fancier than Eliot's, and stumbles his way to the couch. He runs his hand through Dex's hair, smiling indulgently at the scowl that gets him, and then sits on Chippy's other side, one hand pulling Chippy's feet into his lap while the other maneuvers the coffee.

Well, that answers that question.

Parker huffs quietly, eyes narrowed. The last thing she needs is these guys making her job harder. On the other hand, Chippy is really, truly calm for the first time since the Samwell players left the night before, so she won't complain. For now.

When Parker looks up, she spots Eliot in the kitchen, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, gaze locked on the scene on the couch. Parker recognizes that expression; it's the one that means someone's about to get punched. Usually the mark, but this wouldn't be the first time he's punched someone client-adjacent.

Then Bitty asks Eliot something about eggs, and he turns toward the stove, crisis temporarily averted.

*

Sophie clicks into the living room on four-inch stilettos and surveys the mass of hockey players and… associates. "Alicia, dear, are you free to help with a bit of…" She looks off to the side.

"Grifting?" Alicia says, eyes twinkling.

"Yes, all right," Sophie says with the same twinkle. "Interested?"

Alicia grins and rises gracefully, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt. "I thought you'd never ask."

Sophie smiles and looks around the room. "Ford?"

Nate lifts his head, eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

Sophie huffs. "Not you. Her."

Ford looks up. Her eyes are wide behind her glasses. "Me?"

"That's too confusing," Nate grouses.

"We call her Foxtrot," says the guy sitting next to her.

Ford smacks his arm. "Whiskey, do _not_ encourage that."

"I think it's sweet," Sophie says, and Foxtrot groans, understanding that she's now stuck with the nickname forever. "You're theatre people, right?" When Foxtrot nods, Sophie gestures her over. "You're with me."

Nate watches carefully. "This for the thing with the eels?"

"It seems the next logical step," she says.

"Helps to have a guy on that."

Sophie raises an eyebrow in clear invitation. Nate scoffs. Sophie surveys the crowd in the living room. "All right, you tell me. Who's the best bullshitter in the room?"

Parker isn't sure who she expects them to pick, but she can't help the quiet "Really?" that escapes her mouth when every current and former Samwell student in the room, plus Chippy, points to Dex.

Sophie usually has her face under complete control, but she must do something that tips them off, because suddenly she has a half-dozen hockey bros clamoring for her attention.

"Brah, like, the time you convinced Rans that his computer deleted all his spreadsheet templates."

"Yo, Dexy, remember when all those fucking lax bros stripped in the middle of Lake Quad because you told them there were free burritos for streakers?"

"Oh, dude, tell her about that semester when you had us convinced you were a cishet Republican douchebro."

Dex punches Nursey in the shoulder. _Hard_. "Too much, Derek," he hisses.

"Regardless," Sophie interjects before a full-scale brawl can erupt, "you're welcome to join us, Dex, if you'd like." Dex exchanges a glance with Nursey and Chippy. Nursey shrugs. Chippy tilts his head toward Sophie. Dex lets out a sharp breath, nods, and goes to stand with Alicia and Foxtrot.

Sophie surveys her minions and then nods. "The woman who was here last night. Larissa. Where is she?"

"She had to go back to Boston," Foxtrot says.

"Excellent," Sophie says, sweeping up her purse and wrap and herding the others toward the door. "Someone text her that we're headed in her direction, yeah?" Sophie leads Foxtrot, Alicia, and Dex out the door, and Parker catalogues the _many_ ways that could be a disaster. She's super disappointed that she's not going with them.

*

The grifters come back as soaked as if they'd walked through a monsoon, arguing about eels.

"You said your family has fishing boats!" Foxtrot is shouting at Dex. She looks the wettest.

"We're _lobstermen,_ not eel fishers." Dex looks less wet but also… glittery?

"Hashtag mynextbandname," Ransom says, and Hardison high-fives him.

Dex stalks over to the couch and shakes himself off like a wet dog. Nursey and Chippy shriek and raise their arms over their heads, but it's too late. Now they're all soaked and glittering. Dex drops on top of them, more or less in Chippy's lap with an arm around his shoulder, long legs draped across Nursey's lap, heels resting on the arm of the couch.

Jack scowls at them from where he's sitting at the breakfast bar looking over paperwork from You Can Play. "If I have to steam clean that upholstery, y'all are paying for it," he deadpans.

Nursey and Dex immediately point at Chippy. He scowls but blushes.

Chowder yells "FINE!" and flips a plastic baggie at Jack. It's labeled "SIN BIN QUATRE."

"Since when?" Jack asks, but he's already digging for his wallet.

From the chair where he's watching kitten videos with Tango, Tater looks up in alarm. "Oh, no," he says, "I'm saying 'y'all,' too. Is fine now?"

"You're okay, Tater," Chowder rushes to assure him. "It's only for Jack, because it's one of those cutesy couple things he picked up from Bitty."

"Chyeah," Nursey says, "we fine Bits when he says 'eh,' too."

"M'bros," Holster murmurs, misty-eyed behind his glasses. Parker rolls her eyes and goes to stand with Eliot in the kitchen, suddenly in need of another grownup.

Eliot makes this soft, pleased sigh when Parker leans against the counter next to him. He shifts subtly closer on an exhale, and now Parker's right arm brushes Eliot's left from shoulder to elbow every time they breathe.

"I wanna shake him 'til his teeth rattle," Eliot says quietly, gaze boring holes into Chippy's head. "See if any sense falls in."

Parker's not sure Eliot's actually talking about Chippy anymore, so she offers, carefully, "Maybe it's good."

" _Good_ ," Eliot scoffs, lip curled. "He's been outed in one of the worst ways possible, and now he's gonna throw big gay polyamory on top of it?"

Something hot and ugly flares in Parker's gut. "Or maybe someone's done something awful to him, so he's going to grab onto whatever happiness he can get out of it."

" _Happiness_ ," Eliot says. His lip curls further.

"Yeah, _happiness_ ," Parker snaps. She pushes away from the counter and out of the kitchen. "Maybe you could try it sometime!"

Parker picks the lock to the roof in under twenty seconds and is sitting on the edge with her feet dangling over in thirty. She balls her hands inside her sleeves and glares at the streets of Providence.

"Babe," Hardison says 55 seconds later, after she's felt the rumble of the elevators and tracked his progress up the roof access stairs and the squeak of the door, "you okay?"

Parker shrugs, and Hardison moves to stand right behind her. He hesitates, boyfriend senses warring with the acrophobia that no amount of jumping (okay, getting pushed) off buildings has cured him of.

"You can sit behind me," Parker says.

He immediately drops to the ground and scoots up behind her. His legs bracket hers and, after she confirms that she's okay with the contact, his chest presses against her back and his arms wrap around her waist. And he waits.

"Alec," Parker says quietly, "what if we were wrong?"

"About the job?" Hardison angles his head away, because breath on her skin feels like walking through a car wash. "Nah, Parker, it's going great."

Parker shakes her head. "Not the job. Eliot."

Hardison goes very still. "You... you think he doesn't want to be with us?"

Parker laughs, but she might also cry, and that's too many things to process at once. "I _know_ he wants it," she says. "But I don't think he's going to let himself have it."

Hardison relaxes. "Oh, is that all," he says. "Look, all we gotta do is show him it's safe, right? That he can be with us and still take care of us. That we're not gonna get hurt because we're with him. Eliot's got a _lot_ of baggage, and it's crammed fulla guilt. We just gotta be smarter than those voices in his head."

Parker thinks about that. She shakes her head. "How?"

Hardison's shoulders move in a quick up-and-down. "No clue. But we'll figure it out."

Parker relaxes a little. They probably will figure it out. They always have before.

*

Hardison unlocks a folder on Dave Winn’s hard drive and discovers that the women on his “executive support team” come from a modeling agency, not a staffing agency. Parker unlocks a supply closet and discovers what Winn is _doing_ with those models-cum-executive-supports—and not consensually, going by how fast the woman buttons her blouse and rushes away (not so fast that Parker doesn’t see the tear tracks).

Further digging reveals a half-dozen sexual harassment and sexual assault charges against Winn. Each time, he's bribed or extorted his way out of them—and then ruined the life of the woman who brought them.

After that, it's a _joy_ to switch to Plan H, which is Plan G with more people punching Dave Winn in the face.

*

"Eliot, honey,” Bitty says, “I know kneading dough is cathartic, but I do need it to still be usable."

Parker is aware that she's spending a lot more time than usual eavesdropping. She doesn't mean to. It's the weird layout of Jack's apartment: it _looks_ big and open, but it has a surprising number of corners and jutting walls that are great for hiding behind. Unintentionally. Of course.

Right now, for instance, she's standing next to a wall that, for no reason that she can see, juts about a foot into the kitchen before the breakfast bar cuts it off. From here, she can't see into the kitchen, but she can hear perfectly well—and Eliot and Bitty can't see her.

There's a long silence, and then Eliot says quietly, "Hardly seems worth it." Parker snickers at how much thicker their accents get when they're talking to each other.

After a beat, Bitty says, "Well, Mr. Spencer, you don't knead the dough, you get flat, tough bread. You need to strengthen the gluten to—" Bitty cuts off abruptly. Parker knows exactly what look Eliot's giving him.

"You know what I mean," Eliot says, low.

There's a beat, and then Bitty says, "You know what I mean, too."

Eliot snorts. "Never heard anyone use bread as a relationship metaphor."

"Because you haven't been hanging around with me." Bitty pauses. "Jack and me, we started dating in the summer. When school started in the fall, I was a _mess_. I had to juggle school, hockey, the vlog, a boyfriend in another danged city—"

"And baking," Eliot cuts in.

Bitty huffs. "And baking. Plus, I had to keep everything with Jack a secret. I couldn't balance it, and I fell apart. Called Jack one night while he was flying home after a game, left this _awful_ voicemail about everything that was wrong." He laughs weakly. "That boy drove from Providence to Samwell in the middle of the night, in a downpour, so he could look me in the eye when he told me we were a team and I didn't have to do it alone." He pauses again. Parker kind of wishes she could see what they were doing in there. "Now, y'all keep pretty tight-lipped about your pasts, but I bet that would be on the _low_ end of things you've done for each other." Bitty's voice turns wicked as he continues, "And _I_ get sex out of it." Now Parker _really_ wishes she could see Eliot's face. "If that's a thing you do."

"Some of us," Eliot says, and Parker blinks, not sure whether she's more surprised that Eliot knows that or that he'd admit it to a relative stranger.

"Well, there you go, then," Bitty says as if something's been decided. "'Course, I'd never try to _actually_ tell you what to do. And not just 'cause you could take me out with pretty much everything in this kitchen. But I think it'd make you happy."

"You don't know what I've done," Eliot says automatically.

"That is true," Bitty says. "But I've seen how you beat yourself up over it. You've got remorse, and you've changed your ways. And I've seen the way they look at you. I don't know them real well, but they don't seem the sort to pine over someone _bad._ "

Parker blinks. Have she and Hardison been _pining_? Eliot's snort seems to ask the same question.

Then Bitty says, "I pined over Jack for over a semester, mister. I know it when I see it in someone else. It's a very distinctive look." Parker smacks a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter. "You'll figure it out in your own time," Bitty says. "But for what it's worth, I think you deserve to be happy."

Instantly, Parker doesn't care that they're going to find out she's been eavesdropping. She rounds the jutting wall, marches up to Bitty, and smacks a kiss onto his cheek. "He does," she declares. Then she gags and frantically douses her lips with water from the sink's hose attachment, because _yuck,_ bread flour.

"Parker!" Eliot snarls as she walks away. If he says anything else, she can't hear it over the peals of Bitty's laughter.

*

Chippy paces. Chippy sighs. Chippy bounces his knee up and down. Chippy hasn't stopped moving since he walked through Jack's door two hours ago. Parker has a list of 71 things in the apartment to tie him to so he'll hold still for two seconds.

"Samwell has a game tonight," he says. _Again_.

" _We know_ ," Parker and Hardison say in unison.

"Forty-minute drive," Chippy says, knee jiggling.

" _No_ ," Parker, Hardison, and Eliot snap.

Chippy subsides into the couch cushions, crossing his arms and pushing out his lower lip. Parker counts down from twenty. "If I wear a hat—"

In three quick strides, Parker crosses the room and throws herself on Chippy, legs straddling his chest and ass planted on his stomach. His eyes widen, and he gulps.

Parker leans down until her face is inches from his. "No. Game," she says. Chippy swallows dryly, and his eyes dart around the room in hope of rescue. Since the only other people in the room are Hardison, Eliot, and Tater, who keeps looking over and giggling, he's not getting it.

"At this moment, you have the second-most recognizable face in Providence," Eliot says. He's moved up to stand right behind Parker, penning Chippy in further. He rests a hand on Parker's shoulder and squeezes gently.

"So let me get _out_ of Providence," Chippy says. Parker gives him points for tenacity. She whacks his arm anyway, and he yelps.

"You wanna go to _Samwell_?" Hardison demands. He stands by Chippy's head, boxing him in.

"Zimmermann!" Eliot shouts down the hall. "Come collect your damn kid!"

"Not my kid," Jack calls back, but Parker hears him get up and head toward them. Parker climbs off, and Jack fits himself into the sliver of couch beside Chippy. Parker backs up until she "accidentally" bumps into Eliot, who grunts for show and then, so stealthily it takes her a minute to realize it's happening, rests a hand on her hip. She shoots a wide-eyed look at Hardison, who stares back with his jaw slightly dropped. Jack puts a hand on Chippy's knee. "All right?" he asks.

Chippy kind of whimpers. "It's so quiet when they're gone," he whines.

Parker tracks Jack's gaze around the room. A red Samwell hoodie draped over a chair. A hand-crocheted UGA afghan on the back of the couch. Two pies on a rack beside the oven. "Yeah," Jack says. "It is."

That's all he says. He doesn't tell Chippy that things will get better, or cajole him out of his bad mood. He doesn't remind him how much trouble going to Samwell would cause for the Samwell team, especially if anyone figured out who he was there for. He just sits, quiet and still, and slowly Chippy begins to quiet and still, as well.

*

The Samwell Men's Hockey Haus is charmingly appalling. Hardison takes one look at the green couch in the living room and drags Parker and Eliot into a chair far too small to hold all three of them.

"Damn it, Hardison," Eliot mutters, but he doesn't dislodge himself, just shuffles around until he's more comfortable. Parker and Hardison carefully do the same, and it's... Parker has to close her eyes, because it feels so good she can't process anything else for the moment. She has her head against Hardison's shoulder and her legs across Eliot's lap, and she's pretty sure Hardison's arm is around Eliot's shoulders, and if she could find a way, she would keep them exactly here, in this position in this chair, for the rest of their lives.

The game is brutal. Jack is definitely taking more hits than he did pre-article. He shakes it off and keeps skating, but Tater and the other Providence enforcers turn on Carolina with a vengeance. Even away from home ice, the stadium is packed to the rafters with people wearing Zimmermann sweaters with rainbow As, waving rainbow flags and signs that read "#zimmermanncanplay."

The Haus door slams open near the end of the first period, and Bitty storms in. His face is red and blotchy, and he's sniffling and wiping at his eyes. His team surrounds him instantly, pelting him with questions so loud and fast that Parker covers her ears until everyone calms down enough for the swarming bees noise to go away.

"I'm fine," Bitty insists. The guys glare at him until he sighs and says, "I _will be_ fine, soon as everybody gets outta my way and lets me bake something."

The boys part, but they follow him into the kitchen and crowd around him as best they can without actually crowding around him. Once he's got a truly mind-boggling number of ingredients arrayed in front of him (how many kinds of flour can he need at once?), Dex puts a hand on his shoulder and says carefully, "Bits? Do we need to beat somebody up?"

Bitty sniffles again and pulls a tissue out of his pocket to wipe his nose. "Oh, Dex, hon, no! Oh, you know how it is," he says as he throws away the tissue and washes his hands. "Some a these lax bros, this whole situation is like early Christmas for 'em."

Chowder's jaw drops. "Bitty, no, that's terrible! They shouldn't do that to you!"

"'Course they _shouldn't_ , bro," Nursey says, gently hip-checking Chowder into the counter. "But you know they do."

Chowder's expression falls. "Yeah, they do."

During press after the Falconers' hard-fought loss, Georgia says that Jack will answer three questions related to Healy's article. The first two are from people Sophie swears are legitimate journalists, though they talk like they've never met an actual queer person. The third is from Nate, posing as a journalist from a tabloid with a sleaze level to rival the _Exposé_ 's. Even though he agreed to it and knows it's coming, Jack looks so betrayed by Nate's question.

Parker wonders, not for the first time, who this job is _for_. Whether getting Alicia and Bad Bob the revenge they want, however richly Healy and Winn deserve it, is worth the stress they're putting on Jack. Eliot would never have said no when Bob called in his favor, but Parker wonders if she should've stuck to saying no on his behalf.

Then Parker remembers how Bitty had been after he'd kicked everyone but Dex and Foxtrot out of the kitchen, the tight set of his shoulders and the quick, sharp way he'd moved around the room. Until now, Bitty's seemed like the one who had things together, the one who was holding Jack up when it got to be too much. But with Jack and Chippy on their five-game road trip, Bitty's facing all of this—the press, the lax bros, his own team's stress—alone, barely holding on by his fingernails.

Parker nods. They've done jobs for worse reasons.

*

Bitty's bent over his bubbling witch's cauldron ("Stockpot, Parker," Eliot's voice says in her mind, but Parker's on to him. He's a witch, too) not long after the game ends when the laptop at his elbow makes the Skype noise. He jumps and then, when he sees who's calling, swears.

Bitty cuts the music streaming out of his phone and stands for a long beat staring at the screen. Parker holds still. She's pretty sure he's forgotten that anyone else is in the Haus, and she's not about to remind him. Eventually, he wipes his hands on a tea towel, takes a deep breath, and connects the call.

"Mama! Coach!" HIs voice sounds strained.

"Oh, Dicky, baby, it's so good to see your face," says a woman, probably Bitty's mom—Suzanne, Parker sees when she calls Bitty's file up on her tablet.

"You, too, Mama," Bitty says weakly.

"How you holding up, sugar?"

Bitty chuckles wetly. "Best as can be expected. It's a real circus up here." He leans against the oven door handle and puts a hand over his face. "This is _not_ how I wanted y'all to find out about this."

Suzanne's inhale is sharp and loud in the quiet of the Haus kitchen. "So it's true, then?"

Bitty drops his hand and gestures vaguely. "Which part?"

"Why don't you tell us which part, Junior." Bitty's father, Eric Sr., has a gruffer tone.

Bitty takes a deep breath. This kitchen is his domain, but alone in it now, he looks small and _young_ , in a way he seldom does. "Mother, Daddy," he says with a quaver in his voice, "I'm gay. That part's definitely true. And… and I'm with Jack. We've been together since he graduated." Suzanne makes a weird squeaking noise, and Bitty's mouth twists. "But it is absolutely not true what they're saying about Jack and Chippy—um, István. He's a real good kid, and he's like a little brother to Jack. Jack's done nothing but try to help him since preseason." If any of the Bittles register the irony of 21-year-old Bitty calling 19-year-old Chippy a kid, none of them mention it.

There's a long silence on the other end of the call. Bitty gnaws at his lip.

"Well, Dicky," Suzanne says, "this isn't the life I'd choose for you. But you're the one who's gotta live it, so I guess it doesn't matter what I'd choose. Long as you're happy, that's all that matters to me."

Bitty breathes out long and slow. "I _am_ happy, Mama," he says. " _So_ happy with Jack."

Suzanne's voice hitches as she says, "Then that's good, baby."

Bitty wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "How 'bout you, Coach?" he asks shakily.

There's a much longer pause, and Bitty's getting progressively squirmier when Suzanne hisses, "Rick! You gonna say something?"

Coach gives a long sigh and then says, in that same gruff tone, "Zimmermann—he good to you?"

" _Oh_ ," Bitty breathes out softly. Then his face lights up like a sunrise. "Yes, sir!" he gushes. "So good." He squares his shoulders and looks straight at the laptop screen as he says, "We're good to each other."

Coach makes a sound like he started clearing his throat and got stuck halfway. "That's all right, then," he says. Then he pushes on more forcefully, "What about the hack that wrote this thing? Healy? What's being done about him?"

Bitty scrambles for a second to catch up with the abrupt subject change. "Oh, uh. Don't you worry about Brock Healy. Bob's got some friends. They're... taking care of him."

"Oh!" Suzanne makes the weird squeaking sound again, and Parker wishes she could see the screen to know what face went with it. "Oh, Dicky. _Bad Bob Zimmermann_!"

"Yes, Mother," Bitty says, rolling his eyes. He's back to tending his spell ( _"Recipe, Parker"_ ) now that the hardest part of the conversation is over.

"Aw, Junior," Coach grumbles.

"Sorry, Coach!" Bitty says airily.

The conversation continues awkwardly. Coach wants details on what Bitty means by Healy being taken care of, which Bitty refuses to give. Suzanne wants details on having Bob and Alicia Zimmermann as practically in-laws, and Bitty refuses to talk about that, too. He wants to talk about Jack, the Samwell team, his classes, rather than about his famous boyfriend's famous family, or his own newly gained infamy and what he's doing with it.

Only a couple minutes later, Bitty starts wrapping up the call. He's clearly about to say goodbye when Suzanne blurts, "Dicky?"

Bitty's spoon stops stirring, and he raises an eyebrow at her. "Yes, Mama?"

She doesn't answer right away. Bitty waits. Finally, she says, "I might have some... hang-ups to work through about... all this. But I am _here_ for you, baby. You and Jack both. Nobody should have to put up with what you two are going through right now. No one deserves that."

Bitty's shoulders relax. "Thank you, Mama," he says softly and disconnects the call. He stands against the oven for a minute, head bowed, looking like he's just played a full sixty minutes on the ice. Then he pulls a tissue from the pocket of his blue flannel overshirt, wipes his eyes and nose, and gets his phone out of his jeans. Parker watches him dial and wait. "Hey, honey," he says, quiet but upbeat. "I know you can't talk right now, but you will not believe the conversation I just had..."

Parker closes her tablet and sneaks toward the door. Bitty needs time alone with his witchcraft and his feelings. Maybe she'll check out that campus coffee shop everyone's always raving about.

*

The Falcs go 2-3 on their roadie, and there are a lot of downturned mouths and slumped shoulders slouching around Jack's living room. Jack throws himself sulkily into a chair and turns on the TV to some sports network that's covering NHL highlights, the sound low but not muted.

"Now, see," Hardison says, coming up between Parker and Eliot at the kitchen counter, "why's he gotta go and do that?"

"Same reason we do a post-job debrief," Eliot says, bumping Hardison gently, not quite pushing him away.

"Nah, but that's _us_ ," Hardison says. "What's he gonna learn from some talking heads sitting in a studio like they know what he's going through?"

"Sometimes," Sophie says from where she's rummaging in the fridge, and Parker legitimately has no idea when she came into the room, "you just need another perspective." Sophie emerges with a glass in each hand; one full of sparkling water, the other full of that disgusting green junk that Jack drinks by the blenderful. She winks at them before gliding into the living room. She settles in the chair next to Jack's and hands over the gross smoothie. She pulls her legs up under her and leans against the arm of the chair to bring her closer to Jack.

"Oh," Jack says, looking from the glass to Sophie with a little wrinkle in his forehead. "Thank you." Sophie nods and turns her attention to the TV. Jack does the same.

On the screen, some commentator in an ill-fitting suit is saying, "…how far the apple's fallen from the tree, eh? The most scandalous decision Bad Bob's ever made is whether it's tacky to wear all four Cup rings at once."

The other one laughs like that was funny and replies, "I mean, first the overdose and now this? Is Zimmermann _trying_ to sabotage his career? The Falcs have to be wondering whether he was worth the risk. They've gotta be asking themselves if this is the guy who can carry them to the Cup."

"Hockey's a _team sport_ , you overpaid baboon!" Thirdy calls from the couch, where he, Marty, and Guy are sort of propping each other up.

"Maybe you could read about it on Wikipedia," Snowy throws in from where he and Poots are playing pool, because god forbid these guys go more than an hour without competing at _something_. Parker laughs, and Snowy grins at her.

Sophie leans over to Jack's chair and pushes a button on the remote, changing the channel to some cooking show that immediately has the guys arguing over whether Bitty could do it better. "I stole the Stanley Cup once," she tells Jack.

He considers her while he swigs his vile smoothie. "Yeah?" he says. Sophie nods. "I crapped in it. Twice."

Sophie smiles and clinks their glasses together. **"** Cheers."

*

In the end, it comes down to this: seven against two, and the marks refusing to admit defeat.

Eliot took out Winn's three goons without breaking a sweat. The contents of the USB drive that Parker stole, detailing Winn's sundry crimes, are being spread across the internet, thanks to Hardison. Bad Bob even got to punch Healy in the face when he tried to run.

Bitty, Jack, and Chippy stand on one side of the Winn's office and Bob on the other, while Hardison, Eliot, and Parker hold the middle. Winn and Healy are braced against the desk, panting, down and unaware that they're out.

Winn is doing better at looking unaffected. He doesn't know that the bulk of his staff has turned on him, and that the ones who didn't have either been arrested or knocked unconscious by Parker and Eliot.

Healy is rumpled and wild-eyed. His gaze flicks constantly from Eliot to Bob to Jack, like he's trying to decide who's best able to take him down.

But it's Bitty who speaks, no surprise to anyone but Healy and Winn. "Not so nice, is it, Mr. Healy, having your secrets shoved into the world without your say-so?"

"You set us up!" Healy spits.

"Like you didn't?" Chippy shouts.

Winn shrugs. "It made an excellent story."

Parker glowers, but Bitty rolls his eyes and says, "Well, now _you're_ the story. I like that better."

"Let's go," Eliot growls. The police are waiting downstairs for Winn. Nine women very publicly accuse you of sexual harassment or assault, and suddenly the cops get interested in talking to you.

Healy makes one more break for it. Bitty lays him out with a right uppercut, and they leave him moaning feebly on the floor as they escort Winn from the office. The police aren't waiting for Healy, though they'll want to talk to him eventually in connection with the case against Winn. But a _lot_ of libel suits wait in Healy's future, and his life's just going to be generally unpleasant for the next few years. Getting his ass handed to him by the one person in the room he'd dismissed as a threat makes an _excellent_ start to his new reality.

They pick up Sophie and Nate in the lobby. They all step outside, the more law-abiding members of their temporary team melting into the gathered crowd (which _looks_ like your standard assembly of rubberneckers but is at least two thirds hockey players). Dex and Nursey fold Chippy into themselves, and Parker watches Eliot watch them, his gaze assessing.

Alicia breezes forward and throws the Leverage team a wink as she hooks an arm through Bob's and pulls him away, somehow sweeping Jack and Bitty along with them. The crowd ebbs and flows, actual curious onlookers slowly filling the spaces left by departing hockey bros and then drifting away again when they realize the interesting parts are over. It's just the five of them, alone together, the way it should be.

Nate looks around with a satisfied expression that Parker's seen more often on him now that he's not in charge anymore. "Lunch?"

"I could eat," Hardison says. Parker checks her watch. It's 1:30.

They turn away from the building—and then pull up short when they're approached by two people Parker's never met but recognizes instantly.

A small grin curls Eliot's lips as he steps forward. "George, hey," he says.

Falconers Assistant General Manager Georgia Martin has flawless brown hair and skin, a charming smile, and a suit that could probably, in and of itself, be considered a corporate weapon. She gives Eliot a warm smile and a gentle press to his hand. "So good to see you." She steps back and lets go of his hand. "You understand why I couldn't get involved this time?"

Eliot nods, still smiling. "Thanks for not stopping the boys from helping out."

"I put my foot down when it seems necessary." She shrugs. "For some reason, it didn't seem necessary this time."

Eliot chuckles and winks at her, the charming asshole.

Georgia rolls her eyes. "Please know that, any time you or your team are near Providence, there are seats for you at any Falconers game." She grins. "Also the Schooners. And the Seattle Storm. We're hardly the only team that's had problems with Winn's publications."

"Aw, yeah," Hardison says, perking up instantly, "the Schooners got Devonte Gagne—"

"And Kristian Strømmen," Sophie says.

"Woman, please," Hardison scoffs. "Strømmen was a has-been even before Seattle signed him."

Eliot sighs. "Ignore them," he tells Georgia. "They'll be a while."

"It's like you don't even know what I do for a living," Georgia says. She gestures to the man beside her. "Do you know Jack and Eric's friend Shitty?"

The infamous Shitty Knight is a stoned-looking white dude with shaggy brown hair, a moustache more impressive than any Parker's seen since they did that job at the beard festival, an ill-fitting brown suit, and lime green flip flops that show off Falconers blue toenails. He shakes hands with the whole team, his grip damp but crushing. "Yo, brahs, fucking _clutch_ take-down. Top goddamn shelf." Parker has never heard such absolute gibberish spouted so earnestly.

Georgia smirks. "He's an acquired taste."

"I am a fucking _delight,_ " Shitty corrects her indignantly. He turns sincere green eyes on Parker and says, "Ladydude, you have no idea how bad I wanted to be there for my best brah and little brah. Like, Jay-Zed and me are ride or die, and Bitty and me are ride or pie, and I stood on Jackie-boy's absurdly comfortable yet structurally unsound sectional sofa and vowed to always have their backs." It's a lot of words. Parker's trying to decide if it's a problem. Shitty sighs. "But, as much as I fucking loathe the goddamn privilege turduckens I am burdened with at Harvard, it turns out I care enough about my g-d law degree to want to get through without a criminal record. So my help was limited to loaning my beloved Lards my beloved car and sending Bits NSFW gifs of the Zimmerbutt. That said—" Shitty reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a business card. "If you _ever_ need a lawyer, at _any_ time, brahs, I'm your dude."

Georgia absolutely spears him with a look. "You're an L2," she says.

Shitty holds up a finger. "If you ever need a lawyer _in the future,_ I'm your dude."

Parker snorts and takes the card. It turns out to be the words "B. Knight, Esq.," a Boston cell number, and the email address "shitsnlegals@msn.com" hand-written in glittery purple ink on the back of a half-full Al's Sub Club card. "We'll keep it mind," she says. She means it.

"Great!" Shitty claps his hands together. "All right, m'dudes, gotta get my ass back to Cambridge. Lardo needs the car-o." He slaps Georgia on the back—too hard, if her wince is anything to go by—and saunters off, hands shoved in his pants pockets, whistling.

Georgia rolls her eyes as she watches him go. "A _very_ acquired taste." She turns back to the team and offers Eliot her hand again. "Thank you again—all of you," she adds, gaze flicking around the team, "for everything you've done. I'm sure Jack and Eric would've been fine eventually, but Chippy—" She shakes her head and pinches her lips tightly. "This is the best possible outcome for everyone, I think."

"Happy to help," Eliot says.

Georgia smiles and presses her free hand against their joined hands for a second before letting go and turning to leave. "Don't be a stranger, Labert!" she calls over her shoulder and walks away surrounded by a cloud of the team's laughter and Eliot's exasperated growling.

" _Lunch_ ," he snaps as soon as Georgia's out of sight. Parker puts her arm through Eliot's and, after a pointed head-jerk from Parker, Hardison does the same on Eliot's other side. Eliot grumbles, but he lets them keep holding on as they lead him toward the car.

*

The gold light of sunset outlines Eliot as he leans against the low wall of their hotel room balcony. Parker pauses in the doorway and takes a minute to assess how she feels when she looks at him, like he taught her to do with food.

 _Warm_. The same warmth she feels when she looks at Hardison. Her insides feel the same sort of twisted they did before she and Hardison first tried talking about this. She hopes it'll be easier this time, because she's done it once. She knows how to say it.

She hears familiar footfalls behind her and leans back into Hardison before he's ready, just to hear him squawk and feel him flail around trying to keep them upright. She grins and grabs his hands, pulling his arms around her waist. He leans down to rest his chin on her shoulder. He doesn't say a word, just breathes with her, probably watching Eliot in the sunset, too.

"I can feel your creepy asses watching me," Eliot says without looking at them.

"My creepy ass is way back here, not doing anything, man," Hardison protests. Parker grins wider.

"Just... get out here." Eliot gestures them onto the balcony.

They go without releasing each other, shuffle-walking forward until Parker's against the wall beside Eliot, Hardison bracketing her from behind. Parker takes a minute to assess, but she doesn't feel trapped, just... loved.

"Whatever you're going to say," Eliot says roughly, "get it over with."

Hardison spreads his hands wide on top of the wall. Parker loves those hands, loves how capable they are at so many different things, loves how meticulous and gentle and fast they can be all at once, in so many contexts. She places her own hands on top of them and feels Hardison's smile press against the nape of her neck before he straightens and looks at Eliot. "Nah, man, I've talked this to death with you, feels like."

That's news to Parker. She'd tried to talk about this with Eliot exactly once, she and Hardison on the couch and Eliot in a chair, as she and Hardison stumbled through an underplanned script that was too much bumbling and too little content until Parker had blurted, "We want you in our relationship" and Eliot had run from the room like the entire yakuza was after him. She's had no idea that Hardison has tried to continue that conversation. It doesn't surprise her, though; "Why do it if you can _overdo_ it?" might as well be his motto. The fact that he hasn't told Parker about his later attempts says all she needs to know about how it's been going.

"We want to know how _you_ feel," Parker says.

"You don't," Eliot says with a snap in his voice. He's staring out over Providence, refusing to look at them.

"Yeah," Parker says firmly, "we do." She leans into Hardison for a second and adds, "Even if it sucks."

Eliot takes a deep breath and exhales it long and slow. His voice is as measured as if he's timing his words to a beat in his head. "If I said I don't want it, you'd know I'm lying." Parker hasn't known that until this second, but she keeps that to herself. "But I don't fish off the company pier. You know the rules."

"Man, screw the rules," Hardison says, a hint of sharpness to his words. "What'd we say when Nate and Sophie left, huh? Our team. Our rules. We weren't gonna live by anybody else's expectations anymore."

"It's still _my_ rule, Hardison," Eliot says.

"Why?" Parker asks.

"Because I'm _dangerous_!" Eliot pushes his hands into his hair, holding it away from his eyes for a second, giving Parker a glimpse of something turbulent in their depths, before letting it fall into place again. "You know the enemies I have. They are absolutely the kind of unscrupulous assholes who'd try to hurt the two of you to get to me."

"Oh, _that_ ," Parker says with a snorting laugh.

Eliot's face kind of hangs open. "What the hell's that mean?"

"It means," Hardison says, "that that already happens. Like, pretty on the reg."

"Yeah, I mean, there were those idiots in Rotterdam who tried to kidnap us," Parker says, turning around so she's facing Hardison.

"Ooh, yeah, and the woman in Tucson with the syringe," Hardison says. He looks at Eliot with glittering eyes and says, "And there was that time Damien Moreau tied me to a chair and threw me in a pool."

Eliot's eyes narrow. "This is exactly what I'm talking about!"

"No, it's exactly what _we're_ talking about!" Hardison punctuates his point by jabbing an index finger hard against Eliot's sternum, something he wouldn't have dared even a year ago. "We're already close enough to you that bad guys try to hurt us to get to you—and if you're thinking of pulling that self-sacrificing martyr shit and cutting yourself off from us so that won't happen anymore, _stop_ thinking it, okay? We don't want you going anywhere." Eliot crosses his arms and looks away. "We _handle_ it. Me and Parker, we got a system for this shit, and nobody's doing any 'we're sending a message to Eliot Spencer' bullshit on our watch."

"So if it's already happening," Parker says, remembering Eliot's conversation with Bitty and going in for the kill, "you might as well get sex out of it."

Hardison coughs, and Eliot looks like someone hit him with a stun-gun.

"Oh, but not from me," Parker adds, because it's important to name these things up-front. "I don't like sex much. But I like helping. And from what I can tell, Alec's _really_ good at sex."

"Aww, thanks, babe," Hardison says, kissing her temple. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and smiles at Eliot.

"You can counter every argument I got, can't you?" Eliot grumbles. Hardison smiles wider.

"Didn't you see how happy Chippy seemed?" Parker asks quietly.

" _Chippy_ ," Eliot snarls, "is a 19-year-old athlete without a lemming's-worth of self-preservation instinct. And someone who doesn't spend his time chasing international criminals."

"Yeah, but he's _happy_ ," Hardison says. "That's all we're asking for, man. A chance at happy."

Eliot looks away over the city. For him, it's a tell as loud as a scream.

 _We're doing this wrong_ , Parker thinks suddenly. Sophie'd taught her that sometimes you have to let yourself be vulnerable to get someone else's vulnerability in return. Most of Sophie's vulnerabilities are an act. Parker wants to give Eliot something real. "I'm freaking out about the whole thing," she says. "Starting a relationship with Hardison was rough, even though I really wanted it. What if I can't get it right twice?"

Eliot looks at her and then away. "Yeah?"

Parker nods. "Yeah."

Hardison licks his lips. "Yeah, and I, sometimes I still have trouble believing you don't think of me as a, like, an obnoxious little brother."

Eliot's laugh sounds stuck in his throat. "Believe me, Hardison, it's been a long time since I've thought of you as _anything_ like a brother. Obnoxious or otherwise."

"Oh. Good," Hardison says faintly. "That's... that's good. That's cool."

Parker knows that this is far from Hardison's only—or primary—concern in starting this relationship. But maybe it's not the best idea to get into racial power imbalance and internalized homophobia when Eliot hasn't even said yes yet.

"You two are pretty much my entire world." Eliot's voice is so soft they have to lean way forward to catch it. "You're my coworkers, my best friends, practically my roommates. Other than the brewpub staff, you're the only people I see anything like regularly." He clasps his hands together and rests them on the wall, his eyes flitting around the skyline. "If it goes to shit, if we can't make this work—"

"Doesn't matter," Parker says, the same thing she's told Hardison from the beginning.

Eliot's eyebrows go up, and he's definitely looking at her now. "No?"

"Nope." She gestures between the three of them. "We're a team, right? We agreed. Better or worse, we change together. If this kind of relationship doesn't work, we'll change again. And again. As many times as it takes to get it right. It won't ruin _us_. There's no way to do that anymore."

"Man, if we can love you through Moreau, we can love you through anything," Hardison says.

"I..." Eliot closes his eyes and then opens them to look right at Parker and Hardison. Parker's heart leaps in her chest, and that low flame kicks up in her gut. "I gotta think about it," Eliot says. Parker is proud of herself for not dancing on the spot. She shouldn't get ahead of herself, doesn't want to be disappointed, but "I gotta think about it" is Eliot-speak for "I need 99 contingency plans in place before I say yes."

"All right," Parker says. "All the time you need."

"Thank you," Eliot says softly.

"We should kiss on it," Hardison says. He gives Eliot a grin. "So you remember what you're thinking about."

"Not likely to forget, Hardison," Eliot grumbles, but he's already swaying forward into Hardison's space.

Hardison telegraphs every move and gives Eliot plenty of time to say no, to change his mind, but Eliot moves with him, resting his hands on Hardison's hips to reel him in, letting Hardison's fingers cradle his jaw to tilt his face to the right angle. The kiss is molasses-slow but _thorough_ , and a pleased hum pulses through Parker.

When they break apart, Parker knows she should give Eliot time to recover, to wipe that dazed look off his face, but she _can't_. She grabs his arm and hauls him in front of her. In these shoes, there's very little height difference between them, so she just dives in, making sure he knows how much she wants them all together.

He doesn't make a sound—too much of a tell for someone as well-trained as Eliot—but he kisses back with fervor, mouth hot and insistent against hers, hands flexing against the small of her back. God, she loves kissing. Sometimes she loves it more than chocolate. This is definitely one of those times. All the other things—the sex things—are messy and uncomfortable and boring, but kissing—kissing _Eliot_ , while Hardison watches—she could do that all day.

Eliot rips himself away with obvious force and rests his forehead against hers, eyes closed, as he quickly brings his breathing back to normal. "Okay," he says roughly. "Okay."

Parker grins and squeezes his hands before disentangling herself and stepping back, finding Hardison's hand with practiced ease. "I'm gonna go count money. Have fun thinking!"

"Babe," Hardison says as he trails behind her into the hotel room, "babe, is that a euphemism?"

Parker takes one last look at Eliot as she leaves the balcony. He's leaning against the wall again, but his stance is looser now, and Parker's got a good feeling. Eliot will make his 99 contingency plans, and she'll count money (not a euphemism) while Hardison puts a few more nails in the coffin of Dave Winn's empire, and whatever happens next, they'll face it together.

It's what they do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments welcome.
> 
> Weirdly, this ended up being in the same universe as ["Cordella and the Queen of the Void](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11604357)," which was also a birthday gift. Look how the world spins 'round.
> 
> Jack and Sophie's conversation about the Stanley Cup? Both of these things are 100% canon, and how much do I love that?
> 
> Jacques Labert is the name Eliot went by in “The Blue Line Job,” which is how he met both George and Bad Bob. But that’s a story for another time. 
> 
> I'm [hugealienpie on tumblr, too](hugealienpie.tumblr.com), and I talk _a lot_ about these fandoms and other things. If you like, uh... things.


End file.
